


Father, Father

by Aate



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Durin Family, Durin Family Angst, Durin Family Feels, F/M, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Hurt Thorin, Thorin Angst, a bit of a slowburn, but you'll see it coming from miles away, envy - Freeform, one original character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-13 17:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14117040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aate/pseuds/Aate
Summary: Thorin angst. Bilba/ThorinThorin it might have been who reclaimed Erebor, but Thrain gets crowned king after his unexpected return on the day of Thorin's coronation. After being their dependable leader for many harsh decades, dwarrows of Erebor have grown to love and respect Thorin and listen to him before anyone - much to the envy of his father, who gradually starts taking his frustration out on Thorin.Based on the prompt I once left online.





	1. Prologue

“I would have,” Dwalin confessed later, breath smelling of strong ale, as his roughened hand wrapped companionably around the back of Kili’s neck, his eyes burning with such deep hatred Kili would have taken a startled step backwards hadn’t the same hatred been mirrored in his very own heart. As it was, seeing the hatred in someone else’s eyes was reassuring, almost soothing in its own twisted way.

It was their shared betrayal. Their secret treachery.

Dwalin was family in all the ways that mattered, just like Thrain hadn’t been despite of their shared blood.

“Had it gone on for a day longer, I _would have_ killed him,” Dwalin whispered again. “Don’t doubt for a moment I wouldn’t have, Kili. I would have, and I wouldn’t have regretted it. My only regret is I didn’t act sooner.”

Swallowing hard, Kili glanced towards the table. Fili was leaning half on it, sleeping, hand wrapped loosely around the half empty tankard. He looked younger than his 83 years, in sleep.

Meeting the burning eyes head on, Kili looked at Dwalin, swaying, arms folded across his chest against his heartache.

They both loved Thorin. They both would have died for him.

They both would have killed for him.

Still would.

“Mahal have mercy on us.”

He couldn’t judge Dwalin for his confession.

Dizzy with it all – with the conversation, with all the mead, with his _frustration and anger and shame_ – Kili steadied himself, as Dwalin’s hand left his neck, and held onto the backrest of the chair with both of his shaking hands, frowning at the dying embers in the fireplace, hatred in his heart third only to guilt, and the overwhelming love for his Uncle.

“Had it gone on for yet an hour,” he murmured, knowing his words true, “I would have put an arrow into his heart. I would have hated myself for it, but I would have done it, to save Thorin.”

“Bloody orcs…”

Swearing, Fili sat up at the table, clumsy due to his drunken state, only just awakening or not having slept after all. He glared both at Dwalin and Kili, fingers wrapping tightly around the tankard, raising it slowly up to his lips before pausing, words bitter and slurred as he spoke,

“Had I been faster, I would have struck Thrain’s head off. I was already unsheathing my sword.”

“But, as the case stands,” he paused to empty his tankard at one go, “I was too slow, and I will regret it till I’ll get another chance in the Halls of our Ancestors.”

The tankard broke when it was slammed onto the table.

Neither Kili nor Dwalin commented on it, but they remained together until morning, until all three were again sober.

Although none pretended it hadn’t happened, they never mentioned the conversation again; Thorin wouldn’t have appreciated their confessions – he still loved his father, even after everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted to write this fic for years and now I finally got around to starting it. Call me horrible for it, if you like, but I greatly enjoy Thorin Angst. Can't resist to torment our brooding king a little bit. I'd also like to try my hand on genderbending, so say hello to my version of a female Bilbo, Bilba. Let me know what you think of the premise&prologue and if you'd like to read more! :)
> 
> I don't even know how I happened to return to this fandom after some years, but somehow I did and then I instantly remembered how much I used to love Thorin and Bilbo and now it's clear to me I still love them. To top it all, while I was away, new fics came to be and I'm going to have a ball reading them!


	2. The Return

The ceremonial cloak with its long trail was such a heavy weight on him Thorin rolled his shoulders to prevent them from cramping up. The various kinds of minerals – varying from granite pebbles to stannite crystals – adorning the cloak symbolized the dwarrows from all walks of life under his rule, and the way he now carried the cloak, it was believed, would foretell how he would manage to carry his responsibilities as a king – he was now symbolically carrying his people and their worries.

Duties even heavier in his heart than the cloak on his shoulders, Thorin turned to regard his older nephew to make sure all was well with him.

Still and stoic, Fili had his thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt and a look of calm concentration on his young face. He had combed and braided his fair moustache carefully and Thorin was proud to note the bead of Durin’s Folk in his hair, the one Thorin had made for him himself out of pure silver soon after recovering from his wounds after the Battle for Erebor some eight months ago, around the time the reparations had fully begun and the first dwarrows from the Blue Mountains had arrived, led by Dis. Now Erebor’s Dwarrows were finally all there, the entire Southern Side was repaired – and Thorin was ready to be crowned king.

“Nervous?”

“Depends.” Fili’s drawled out reply was collected as ever. “For myself? No. For you, Uncle? Always. You’ll probably trip over your own feet and embarrass our entire family line by dropping the crown. But don’t worry, it’s not like anyone will see – it’ll just be me and Kili, and mom, and Bilba, and Balin and Dwalin, and – well – pretty much the entire kingdom, including our ancestors, peace to their souls. Nervous?”

The corner of Thorin’s mouth curled up into a lopsided grin. The cheek!

“Not as much as you should now be,” he teased right back. “I’m still your uncle, boy – I’ll bend you over my knee in front of the whole kingdom and spank your buttocks red for talking to me like that, and at my coronation, of all places.”

Fili chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. A serious 83-year-old he might have been, but his playful side did occasionally manifest itself in banter.

“You never raised your hand against me when I was little – I doubt you’d do it now.”

Thorin adjusted the rings on his fingers, one on each. Bilba had thought the ten rings “a bit much, dear, don’t you think”, but it was a tradition to wear one ring for each of the major noble families, so there was nothing to it. (At least, he supposed, he was fortunate enough to still have all ten fingers left, unlike his great great grandfather who had had to wear several rings at his coronation on one finger due to a severe battle injury.)

“I could make a new habit of it,” Thorin argued, lazily. “You certainly would deserve it for your impudent words. That kind of impertinence should not go unpunished.”

Fili, nearly as careful with his looks as he was serious by nature, ran a hand over his moustache as if to make sure by feel it was still neatly braided.

“Speak all you like, but if I know you at all – which I do – my buttocks shall remain as pale as ever. You’ve got a soft spot for me and Kili, Uncle, don’t try to deny it. You’d never raise your hand against us. You never did, not even when we were little and would have actually deserved a good spanking. Which reminds me, now’s probably a good time to finally ask: do you remember that bottle of rum back in Ered Luin you were saving for Dwalin’s 125th birthday, the red bottle that went missing?”

That caught Thorin’s attention and he snapped his gaze up at Fili from where it had been going over the rings on his fingers.

He remembered the rum in question well. It had been an expensive bottle of Elvish Piss, Dwalin’s favorite, and its disappearance had remained a mystery for decades. Dwalin had once even suggested Thorin had made the whole thing up – the bottle and its mysterious disappearance – just to save himself from having to buy him a gift.

Clenching his hand into a fist around the hilt of his ceremonial sword, the silvery scabbard touching his ankle, Thorin gave Fili a narrow-eyed look, suspicious.

“What of it?”

Fili offered him an apologetic look, but the laughing blue eyes betrayed his mirth.

“I _might_ know what happened to it.”

Mahal, he even sounded remorseful, _the impertinent little-_

Frowning, Thorin turned to face his nephew fully, hoisting the cloak better up onto his shoulders. It was heavy like a full-grown boar, a perfect reminder of the weight of his duties.

“Pray tell.”

Fili frowned, touching his chin with a finger, as if attempting to recall something from a long time ago.

“I _think_ ,” he said, “that I _might_ have seen a dwarfling – or possibly two dwarflings – pouring the rum onto a piece of enamel in a vain attempt to turn it into a diamond for one Master Dwalin for his birthday. It _might_ be possible the two dwarflings _might_ have had misconceptions about the origins of diamonds, at the time.”

Thorin stared.

“You,” he said slowly, “took my expensive bottle of Elvish Piss and _poured it away_?”

“My deepest apologies.” Fili was unable to hide his grin. “I blame Kili entirely, like always, although he would probably lie and claim it was my idea.”

Thorin could only stare.

The image of Fili and Kili, younger and smaller, sneaking into his chamber to steal the bottle popped into his mind. He could see them in his mind’s eye, pouring the rum onto a pebble, and their looks of disappointment when no diamond emerged.

The victim of their mischief-making as he had been, Thorin tried to fumble for anger, but it never came, fondness and amusement coming instead, and so he stifled a chuckle, again hoisting the cloak higher up on his shoulders.

“You two,” he said, drily, “have considerably contributed to the forming of the grey in my hair.”

In his stead, Fili chuckled, knowing the childish deed thereby forgiven.

Fili and Kili, Thorin mused quietly as he regarded the closed ceremony hall doors in front of him, had given him grey hairs, but they were also responsible for the laugh wrinkles on his face. In his harsh and hard life as the leader of his exiled people, Fili and Kili had been his greatest joy and pride. For longer than his nephews’ years, Thorin had led the dwarrows of Erebor, guiding them, working with them, fighting for them, making hard decisions on their behalf, as needed and necessary, a king without a kingdom, a king in all but title. Aware of the harsh realities of life, he had participated in Fili and Kili’s upbringing with the intention of preparing them for it all, raising them up to be wise warriors so they would be able to look out for themselves as well as for their people, but he had also allowed them their joys to the best of his abilities.

Nonetheless, he wasn’t a good uncle, he suspected, resigned to the truth. He had tried his best, but it hadn’t been enough – no good uncle brought his nephews along to quests to face dragons, no good uncle would submit to Dragon Sickness and thus shame and threaten everyone who loved and cared for him. Yet, Thorin had done it all, and more.

Thorin was weak. He was weak of mind, weak of heart. After decades of seeing his people humiliate themselves to work for Men to earn but _scraps_ , the call of gold had lured him in, promising him and the dwarrows of Erebor a brighter future. Mercifully, he was now free of Dragon Sickness due to seeing his beloved nephews getting struck down one after another – _Thank Mahal, they had survived with no lasting injuries_ – but free or not, the ever-lingering shame was deserved, the gnawing guilt remained and would be his lifelong punishment. Forgiven by his family and friends he might have been, but he never would forgive himself. That Thorin knew with certainty.

He didn’t deserve forgiveness.

“I am a little nervous,” Fili admitted, quietly, just as the trumpet fanfare sounded through the closed doors in front of them. “I know you’ll do fantastic as always, but I’m worried I might forget what I’m supposed to do.”

“You’ll do well, Fili,” Thorin said with certainty. “If necessary, look to Balin. He will help, if you feel uncertain.”

The doors opened after Bombur called out their names, his boom of a voice signaling their entrance, and so they stepped into the ceremony hall filled with dwarrows from all walks of life.

The baker family of Flourheads, round as the buns they baked, hit their bellies with spatulas in a traditional manner, as Thorin and Fili marched pass by them, and Donner Flourhead – as the head of the family – bent her head respectfully. Based on her rapidly reddening face, she was holding her breath for as long as she could without fainting, as were all the family heads around the ceremony hall. They were symbolically showing the Durins their loyalty, to demonstrate they would give their lives for Thorin if necessary – to “give up breathing for the king”, as the saying went in Khuzdul.

Thorin greeted all the families with nods and smiles and by inclining his head – the Earthguards, the Wyvernforges, the Merrydigger, the Thunderguts, the Axerocks, the Slowbuckles, the Blessedbringer, the Grimblades, and several others – and they responded by giving him and Fili their family’s traditional greeting.

The Silverbeards – known for their scholars before the exile and their cunning thieves during it – bowed as one, combing their beards furiously to thus wish Thorin and his heirs good hair growth, while the Metalhanes stomped their boots against the floor in order to plead for Mahal to keep the ground steady. Oldar Metalhane, a promising gold smith before he had lost his arm in the Battle of Azanulbizar but moments before Frerin’s fall, bowed deep in front of Thorin and Fili, calling out words of well wishes and loyalty, tearfully thanking the gods for letting him see the day Erebor was returned to its glory under the rule of Durin’s Folk.

After decades of fighting to keep them and their family members all alive, Thorin now knew personally most of the dwarrows he saw, as he walked towards the empty throne in front of which Balin was waiting in his ceremonial attire along with Kili, who was holding the crown on a velvet pillow, reverently as was proper.

The hall was now silent, apart from the sound of Fili and his boots steadily stepping onto the stony floor, but in Thorin’s mind, everything seemed to grow absolutely still when he stepped up onto the dais, kissed Dis on the cheek, nodded in acknowledgment at Kili and Dwalin and the rest of the Company gathered up there due to his specific request – and laid his eyes on Bilba.

With her curly dark ruby hair and her grey, intelligent eyes sparkling like two spinel gems, Bilba Baggins’ beauty was enough to steal his voice and to leave him wordless even as he stood there in front of his people. Admiring the high, narrow waist emphasizing her voluptuously wide hips and the full roundness of her bust, he took in her dress, noting with satisfaction the exact right shade of Durin’s blue and the bead he had given her as a sign of his affections woven in her curls.

Fili cleared his throat and Thorin came back to himself. Walking up to her, he took her hand in his, conscious of how soft and fine her palm was against his roughened skin, and gave the back of her hand a kiss, lingering.

She was a miracle.

She was a miracle and her presence was another.

It was a miracle she was now there, willing to stay even after Thorin had treated her terribly in his Sickness.

Disgusted with himself, he recalled how he had threatened her, how _he had banished her_ , how her eyes had filled with tears because of him. He recalled her tender touch, as she cleaned up his wounds, smiling down at him sadly, as he laid helplessly on a cot in a tent pitched up on the battlefield after the Battle for Erebor.

He looked into her eyes, holding her hand gently.

 _“I thank Yavanna,”_ he said, in Khuzdul as a dwarf was to do when praying for the gods, _“for creating Bilba Baggins, and I thank Mahal for bringing her to me, for it must have been Mahal himself guiding her steps.”_

She was beyond comparison, and he loved her.

He loved her gentle heart and her quick mind. He was in love with her, with her beauty, her courage, her determination to see things through. She was stubborn like a dwarf, had such hairy feet any a dwarven lady would have been envious of them, and she loved Thorin’s nephews like they had always been her family.

Thorin loved all of her.

”I don’t need to speak Khuzdul to know what you just said,” said Bilba, softly, pulling him down enough to bring their foreheads together. ”Well, perhaps not the exact words, but the meaning behind them anyway. And I love you, too, Thorin.”

She let go, winking in that daring manner of hers, grey spinels sparkling with her inner light. Possessive, he gave his bead in her hair one last satisfied look – all would know she was his but with a glance – before taking again his place in front of the throne, revelling in the knowing looks dwarrows all around were giving him and Bilba – he wanted them all to know she would one day be their queen.

One day soon, he hoped.

Balin continued the ceremony in Khuzdul, thanking Mahal and the ancestors of Durin’s Folk, all the warriors ever to have protected the dwarven way of life, all the smiths for creating new and the ground itself for carrying them all. His words were wise and Thorin listened carefully, appreciative.

The singing began once Balin had finished his speech. The fourteen singers led by Dori sang the history of the Longbeards, the history of Durin’s Folk, and while the singing echoed in the caverns – sometimes barely a whisper, soft, sometimes booming like a war trombone, depending on the event described – none dared to make a noise lest they might rise the anger of Mahal himself for disturbing the sacred song.

Finally came the time for Thorin to give his oath to his people. Reverently, he turned to address them, placing a hand over his heart as he knew was to be done. With his friends and family there by his side, he took a deep breath, the cloak on his shoulders straining him all the way down to his knees, reminding him of his duties. 

”Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror!”

Just as Thorin had been about to start speaking, a dwarf with a long grey beard sticking out of the hood covering his features called out in a croaky male voice, forcing his way through the crowd until he was standing in clear view of the dais right where Thorin couldn’t have avoided seeing him had he tried. A murmur went through the crowd displeased with the interruption, the Coppernoses – known for being short-tempered - nearest to the hooded dwarf bared their teeth. Thorin saw Fili and Kili exchanging looks and Dwalin glancing at Balin for direction, but before any of them had a chance to act, Dis was already stepping forward, her lips a tight line, her gait proudly wide as she held her ceremonial axe up on her shoulder.

”Who dares to inrerrupt the coronation?” she addressed the hooded dwarf in her booming voice. ”Identify yourself. Friend or foe?”

”Neither,” came the answer, ”and a little bit of both: I’m family, and I’ve come to let the dwarven kind know it is not yet Thorin who should be king but me!”

An angered roar went through the crowd at that, and spitting out a curse, visibly insulted, Dwalin jumped off the dais to march straight towards the dwarf, Thorin only held in place due to the small hand suddenly appearing in his.

”Peace, Thorin,” said Bilba, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. ”Trust your dwarrows to take care of it. With that heavy cloak on your shoulders, you might end up hurting yourself.”

With the cloak feeling heavier by the moment, she was right, and together they looked on as Dwalin neared the hooded dwarf.

Thorin raised his hand and the crowd fell silent as one.

”You dare to question Thorin Oakenshield’s right to rule?” Dwalin’s snarl was loud in the suddenly silent hall.

”I do,” the hooded dwarf sounded almost amused, and Thorin frowned, not only because of the words but also because there was something familiar with the voice, with the slightly hunched manner the dwarf was standing in…

”Then you must face me in a duel,” declared Dwalin. ”You insult _my king_ by questioning his right to the crown, I’ll take that as a challenge.”

”Oh dear,” murmured Bilba, one hand coming up to her pearl necklace to fiddle with it worriedly, the other still holding onto Thorin’s. ”Oh dear.”

The hooded dwarf raised his hands up in a pacifying manner like most would have when faced with an angry Dwalin preparing to duel them.

”There will be no dueling done by me today, son of Fundin,” said the hooded dwarf. ”I assure you, I’m not questioning Thorin’s right to the crown, just pointing out it’s not yet his time to claim it – but mine.”

With that, the dwarf pulled back the hood – revealing a crooked nose, high cheekbones and bushy grey eyebrows above a pair of brown eyes. A distinguished tattoo followed the crook of the nose and the sharp angle of the brow – the tattoo was of Erebor with its high peak, and Thorin had only ever known one dwarf with a similar tattoo, with that same nose, and even if the beard was now grey rather than deep brown, he now recognized-

Although surely it couldn’t be-

It had been so long-

How could this be?

”Thorin, my son!” the dwarf met his gaze, smiling widely. ”Don’t you recognize me anymore?”

And despite of his disbelief, Thorin did.

Suddenly in a haze, he let go off Bilba’s hand and stepped forward, Dis ahead of him, while the older dwarrows of Erebor gaped and gasped and the younger ones looked on, confused.

”Father?”

Thrain inclined his head at him, at Dis, smiling at the both of them.

”My beloved children, I see you haven’t forgotten me, after all. Fantastic.”

* * *

A ghost, Thorin first suspected, a ghost sent to taunt him for all the wrongs he had done, but upon further investigations, father turned out to be flesh and blood. He was a living, breathing being, as much alive as Thorin himself.

”Always the doubter,” said Thrain, gently, before banging their foreheads hard together to acknowledge their familial bond and then embracing Thorin in a fatherly manner, kissing his temple. Father smelt like leather, like melting butter, like he always had, even if Thorin had forgotten that at some point over the decades.

Hesitantly, Thorin wrapped his arms around Thrain.

Was this a dream? Was he dreaming?

”I have missed you, my son,” was whispered in his ear, and Thorin held on, tightly.

If this was a dream, he didn’t yet want to wake up.

* * *

After Balin and several of the lords and ladies old enough to remember Thrain all verified his identity, giving an oath of honesty to speak the truth, the coronation was brought to a halt. It had to be, for it was now Thrain who had the right to be crowned, not Thorin, and a new date for Thrain’s coronation had to be set.

Reluctant, Thorin allowed the ceremonial cloak to be removed from him and had Fili help him to remove the shining ceremonial armor never worn in actual combat.

”King you might not become today,” said Bilba when he brooded, ”but you have your father back. Is there not more reason to be grateful than not?”

There was, of course. She was right once again and Thorin used it as an excuse to pull her into a kiss.

”Thorin!” Bilba laughed, swatting him playfully in the chest now bare from armor. ”You don’t need an excuse to kiss me!”

Which was, again, true and a good reason to kiss her, again.

Mahal, how he loved her.

* * *

Thrain ate with gusto. Thorin poured him more wine, still not quite believing he had his father back when all had thought him lost for good. He couldn’t stop running his eyes over Thrain, to drink in the sight of him.

Grey hair, thick like always. Wrinkles misshaping the tattoo of Erebor just so. A few liverspots, faint scars, but no drastic changes. Apart from the more simple clothing and the differences brought on naturally by ageing, father looked similar like he had on the eve of the Battle of Azanulbizar. He even had the same smell and the same appetite, the same stout build. He hadn’t lost an ounce of weight. If anything, he had gained more in muscles.

He looked well for his age.

Dis was beaming. She was now sitting between her sons at the table on the opposite side of Thrain, muscular arms gesturing widely as she filled Thrain in on what had happened to their family after Thrain’s disappearance, her braided black hair framing her ever stoic features. On her left, Kili was brooding, regarding Thrain with open suspicion, eyes narrowed into almost resembling a glare, unflinching. Fili, on her right, was smiling and nodding and being polite, but that didn’t necessarily tell anything of his true feelings – he could put up a convincing facade when he wanted to.

Thorin hoped Fili and Kili would grow to love their grandfather, given time.

”But where have you been all these years?” asked Fili after Dis brought her tale to an end, and even Dwalin looked up at that from where he was sitting on the sofa with Balin, nursing his ale. ”Why didn’t you ever contact us to let us know you were alive?”

”Now, Fili,” Balin said, carefully. ”Perhaps we shouldn’t ask His Highness questions like that yet. I’m sure he would have contacted us had he been able to.”

Similar thoughts had been running through Thorin’s mind: Who knew, father might have even been captured by orcs after the battle, and he needed to be given time to process through that. In any case, it couldn’t have been easy to be apart from his people, not knowing what had become of them. Thorin couldn’t imagine he would have been able to take that for long, his worry would have driven him mad, or outright killed him - his time in Thranduil’s prison would have been unbearable hadn’t it been for Bilba bringing him regular updates on the rest of the Company.

”Father will tell us in time,” he therefore said, inclining his head at Thrain, reassuringly, and was given a smile in return. ”He will tell us when he is ready to talk about it. He survived, that is what matters now the most. All else can wait. In the meanwhile, I would like for you all to get to know each other. Fili, Kili, you now have a grandfather – appreciate him and thank Mahal for the opportunity to get to know him.”

”I, for one,” said Thrain, reverently, ”will revel in getting to know my grandsons – as well as your enchanting bride, Thorin. Lovely to meet you, Miss Baggins.”

Bilba blushed and Thorin, pleased by his father’s approval of her, placed a hand on her knee under the table, which only served to deepen her blush.

”Likewise, Your Highness,” she said, her hand coming to cover Thorin’s on her knee, her thumb rubbing the back of his hand in an absent-minded manner. ”I’m glad Thorin got his father back. It truly is a miracle to be appreciated.”

Despite of her tender smile, she sounded rueful – she had lost both of her parents and must have been now thinking how wonderful it would have been for her to get to meet her father as well.

Thorin gave her knee a comforting squeeze.

Kili straightened up on his seat, leaning one arm onto the table, the unflinching glare aimed at Thrain.

”A miracle, truly indeed,” he spoke drily. ”Yet, I must marvel your impeccable timing, grandfather. Thorin spent decades giving his all to our people, going as far as to lead a near suicidal quest to reclaim Erebor. He fought orcs and elves, he was prepared to die for us. Now, here we have been for months, repairing the kingdom, and you _just happen_ to come back just as Thorin is about to be crowned, revealing yourself dramatically where all could see instead of calling us to an intimate family meeting. Did you come here to enjoy the fruit of Thorin’s hard work? Did you come back for your people – or for power?”

”Quiet!” Dis gave Kili an admonishing slap in the ear. ”Show some respect, Kili – he’s your grandfather and your king-to-be. I love him and welcome him warmly back.”

She then offered Thrain an apologetic smile, while Kili rubbed his ear.

”I’m sorry, father," she said. "The boys have been raised to be wary of strangers which, frankly, you are to them for the time being. I must ask you to give them time to get to know you.”

”Of course,” said Thrain, saluting Kili with his goblet. ”Your suspicion gives you credit, grandson – a true dwarven instinct. You do us proud.”

”In more ways than one,” Thorin said boastfully, heart swelling with pride for his nephews. ”Kili also puts elves to shame with his good aim, and Fili has a talent with swords. Capable warriors, the both of them, young though they still are.”

Thrain beamed at the boys.

”That pleases me beyond words. They have been raised well.”

It was Thorin and Dis’ turn to beam.

* * *

Two days later, it was Thrain wearing the ceremonial crown and Thorin walking respectfully a few steps behind. This time, he couldn’t help but notice, the crowd was more restless, dwarrows whispering openly as Thorin neared the throne after Thrain’s steps. Uneasy, he noted some of the families – the Silverbeards and the Gemshiners, among them – were barely making an effort to give their future king a proper traditional greeting. Some dwarrows only greeted Thrain after Thorin frowned at them, admonishing, and even then their attempts looked half-hearted at best.

Thrain must have noticed, too, but he didn’t comment on it, at least not there in front of all.

When they were half way to the throne, Thrain came to an abrupt halt, forcing Thorin to halt as well.

“Mahal,” he said, unclasping the ceremonial cloak and shrugging it off his shoulders, rolling them. “This thing is needlessly heavy. You better carry it the rest of the way, Thorin, as my heir, so I won’t exhaust myself before my rein has even begun, old dwarf as I am.”

He chuckled like he had told an amusing joke and continued to walk towards the throne, leaving Thorin and the cloak behind, while a shocked murmur went around the hall. The crowd grew even more restless.

Thorin hesitated. It was the ceremonial cloak, intended only to be worn by a ruler about to be crowned, symbolically to show the king or the queen understood the weight of their duties. Yet, now, there where everyone could see, Thrain had shrugged it carelessly off, ordering Thorin to wear it on his behalf. 

It was nearing sacrilege, in his opinion, but he kept that to himself, wary of causing trouble for his father only just returned.

What horrors must have father faced in his exile for him to have forgotten the purpose of ceremonial cloaks? What must have he endured to disregard the tradition so carelessly?

Conscious of the eyes watching him, Thorin bent down to reach for the cloak, gingerly, and hoisted it up onto his shoulders, the weight of it straining him even more now that there was no-one there to help it onto his shoulders unlike the last time when Dwalin and Kili had been the ones to lift it for him.

Now, Kili and Dwalin were both waiting in the first row in front of the dais along with Dis and the rest of the Company. Bilba couldn’t be seen from the crowd for her shorter stature, but Thorin knew she was there as well since she had promised to be there.

As Thrain had ordered, only Balin was standing up on the dais, the crown waiting on the velvet pillow he was holding. At the sight of it, Thorin forced down his sudden longing for it, for cementing his rule with the title. His sudden need to take the crown from his father surprised him in its aggressiveness and shame filled him instantly. Father was the rightful king and to think differently would be treason. Father would be the king and Thorin needed to support him in his tasking duties, not cause him further strain by secretly longing for the crown.

The rest of the coronation went on without further incidents.

”Long live the king and his heir!” was cried dutifully as one as was the tradition, but the manner of Erebor’s dwarrows was subdued more so than festive, almost like they were bemused by the situation, like they weren’t sure of what to make of the unexpected turn of events and their new king. No-one could argue Thrain wasn’t the rightful king, but some grumbled and looked like they wanted to, sending Thorin meaningful glances he made sure to discourage, lest the dwarrors could be charged with treason.

”They cheered for you louder,” said Thrain later when Thorin was helping him to remove the complicated ceremonial outfit with all its clasps as was among the duties of the crown prince Thorin now found himself to be. ”They cheered for you louder.”

”Did they?” Thorin couldn’t say he had noticed, preoccupied as he had been trying to quell down his jealousy and the confusing mix of bitter yearning for the crown and pure gratitude for having gotten his father back.

”I’m certain of it,” said Thrain after a pause long enough for Thorin to have removed the gauntlets and to have put them away into their decorated box.

”They cheered for you louder,” he said again, with more emphasis like he suspected Thorin hadn’t heard him.

”If they did,” Thorin tried to sound reassuring, ”they did it only because they know me better, for now. We survived together for decades and that formed a strong bond between me and our people, but once they become more familiar with you, they will love you similarly. You are the rightful king, no-one denies that. It is only a matter of giving the people time to adjust to your return, father. I, for one, am overwhelmed with joy and gratitude for your return. Many a time have I missed you over the years.”

”Such pretty words,” said Thrain, almost accusingly. ”Fine gems falling from your lips, son, but I wonder what their true worth is.”

There was a strange glint in his eye.

It looked a lot like envy.

At unease, Thorin looked away from the glint, down at the clasps of the shining armor never actually worn in battle. He could see his own face reflected back from the shiny metal. He looked tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this mostly on tablet with no spellcheck, so my apologies for all and every spelling mistake.
> 
> Special thanks to bm and absurdArtisan for commenting! Nice to know I've got at least two readers. Thanks also for the kudos!
> 
> As always, "if you liked it, you should've put a comment on it." ;)


	3. The Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the seven people who took the time to leave me a comment! This chapter is for you. Thank you also for the kudos! :)> (That's a smiling dwarf with a beard.)

At least it had been quick, getting crushed by a boulder.

Listening to the sound of gold with his ear pressed against the stone, Vili had never even seen the boulder falling from above. It had fallen, silent and unexpected, and he hadn’t had time to feel pain, to suffer. He had been dead by the time Bofur had found his voice to call out the warning.

After the boulder had been lift off Vili, nothing had remained of his carefree grin but several buckets worth of bloodied flesh mashed inside the mining overalls and long blonde strands among the white particles Thorin had recognized as a crushed skull.

As disrespectful as it had been, Thorin had needed a shovel for collecting the remains of his brother-in-law. He had cut the Braid of Love off the skin still attached onto a piece of skull and had rinsed the grey brain matter off it in a puddle before even contemplating taking it to Dis.

Dis had hit him when Thorin hadn’t let her see Vili’s remains. She had fought him and cursed him and spat at him, but he hadn’t relented and had instead had the remains buried without letting Dis say her goodbyes to them. It was better if she didn’t see, he had believed. It was better she saw Vili’s smile in her mind’s eye when she recalled him rather than the bloodied mess which would be for forever Thorin’s last memory of his fair brother-in-law, of his friend, of the father of his nephews, the love of his sister’s life.

After that, Dis had stopped talking to everyone, even the boys, for almost two years. Like a ghost, she had moved on from one day to another with an empty look in her brown eyes, never smiling or weeping or expressing any emotion. With their mother in such a deep state of shock, Thorin had been the one to look after Fili and Kili, and by the time she had again found herself from the sorrow, Kili had learnt to talk and Fili preferred holding Thorin’s hand to hers.

“You shouldn’t have allowed it,” said Thrain the moment Thorin had finished telling him the story of Vili. “You should never have allowed your brother-in-law to work _in the mines_. The father of princes -- _mining_! What were you even thinking, Thorin? What a disgrace.”

* * *

“There,” said Thorin, placing his analysis onto the table for all to study, after finishing his calculations on the load bearing capacities of columns with different steel tube diameters under horizontal displacement. He tapped the parchment with a finger, satisfied, the ring with his family coat-of-arm a familiar weight on it. “This should be enough of a guideline for the support columns in Mine 91, but I of course encourage everyone to study it critically in case further examination is needed.”

Squinting, Thrain took the analysis from where Balin and the Royal Engineer Fugor had been leaning closer to look at it and eyed it closely, thick brows drawn together.

“This,” he finally said and put the analysis dismissively back onto the table, “is hardly necessary. Before Erebor fell, we used to mind _by sense_. A good miner could find a rich lode by simply listening to the stone, by tapping it gently with a pickaxe and then following the echo. All these calculations are unnecessary, son, believe me. You wasted your time on them.”

Royal Engineers Fugor and Ahdil exchanged frowns.

“If we follow these instructions,” said Thorin, ignoring the frowns in order to run a finger slowly below the calculations, “the mines are unlikely to collapse. The calculations are mostly for the safety procedures, not for finding minerals.”

When it came to mining, the safety protocols had become his utmost priority after Vili’s death. Vili had died accidentally, due to lacking safety protocols, and after that, Thorin had familiarized himself with mining and engineering, working actively to better mining conditions and to make mining safer for miners.

To honor Vili, he had told Fili and Kili.

“What do you even know of ‘load bearing capacities’?” Thrain regarded him suspiciously. “You are hardly an engineer.”

“Actually,” put in Balin in his kind, patient manner, “Prince Thorin _is_ quite an accomplished mine engineer, among other things. He was the one to make the calculations for the safety columns of several of the mines back in Ered Luin.”

“Did he really,” Thrain didn’t sound like he believed. “Very well, then. Masters Fugor and Ahdil, you are engineers, I’m sure you know how to organize mining. I will let it up to you to decide whether or not you want to use,” he waved a dismissive hand towards the calculations, coughing softly, “these _’instructions’_.”

Fugor and Ahdil looked at each other, then down at the analysis.

They left the room with Thorin’s calculations which, to Thorin’s bewilderment, seemed to annoy Thrain.

* * *

Thrain had to be told, eventually.

Thrain needed to know, and so – seventeen days after the coronation – Thorin told him. He told Thrain all of it, he confessed all he had done in his sickness, under the curse of Dragon Sickness.

Thrain asked questions and Thorin answered and confessed like a prince should to his king. He told of his madness, of his dishonor, of the lure of the Arkenstone, asking for the gem to be destroyed for the sake of the Durin’s line and their sanity. He answered Thrain’s questions to the best of his abilities, bearing his humiliation as a part of his punishment, and as Thrain listened, he studied Thorin in disappointment like was deserved and just.

“You should be properly punished,” he said once Thorin had nothing more to say, no more regrets to voice.

With the shame weighing him down, Thorin bent his head.

He couldn’t disagree.

He _should_ be punished, father was right. He deserved no kindness for his mad deeds, for the way he had treated his family and friends, his loyal cousins, _Bilba_ , and his beloved nephews.

The hand caressing his hair was tender, as was Thrain’s tone when he spoke.

“You gave in to the madness – how could you be so weak, son?”

Thorin shook his head, trying to find a reason when there was none to give.

“I do not know,” he eventually admitted.

The hand petting his hair moved to grasp the back of his neck.

“Did _I_ raise you to be weak?”

“You did not, father.”

“Did your mother raise you to be weak?”

A strong warrior she had been, one of the last to die fighting Smaug before their retreat. Thorin still recalled her dark beard bursting into flames, he could still hear the outrage in her tormented scream, the last sound to have left the gentle lips often pressed against Thorin’s temple in the brooding moments of his inclement youth.

“She did not,” the softly uttered words were difficult to get out, Thorin’s throat felt so tight he could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“Then,” said Thrain, his hold on Thorin’s neck tightening, “then tell me, my son, how did you become so weak as to succumb to the madness?”

Thorin closed his eyes, taking deep, shaky breaths to calm down his pounding heart. His very soul felt heavy like someone had placed a boulder on his chest.

“I do not know,” he said, “and that is the truth. I have always tried to be strong, but when it came down to it, I was not. I do not know why that is.”

Thrain withdrew his hand.

“You,” he said slowly, “ _do not know_?”

“I do not.”

For a long moment, there was silence only broken by the fire cracking in the fireplace.

No longer granting himself the mercy of hiding his face in shame, Thorin forced himself to stand up straight, to look ahead at the number of wall reliefs carved in the granite, the reliefs showing ancient family moments, mostly of the Durins spending evenings together.

The luxurious trappings and the furniture of the King’s Chambers were meant for comfort, and while the carvings portrayed families spending time together, Thrain mostly kept the King’s Chambers to himself, only allowing Thorin in, rarely ever even Dis. It was his right as their king and Thorin understood the need for privacy, even if he also wished father would have taken more time to get to know Fili and Kili better.

“You should be punished.”

“I should,” Thorin agreed, quietly, shame burning him from inside. “I do deserve a punishment.”

“As your king, I _must_ ,” Thrain said, “be the one to punish you.”

* * *

Even if Thorin knew well he would have deserved a public punishment for his deeds, Thrain decided against it, insisting a Durin prince should not be flogged in front of their people.

“We shall do it here in my chambers,” he decided instead. “You will take your shirt off and I will give you your deserved punishment. Afterwards, we will speak of it to no-one; the act shall not leave this room. I will not have you shamed in such a manner.”

“Thank you,” Thorin said, not for his own sake despite of his pride, but for the sake of those who loved him, for the sake of his nephews who would have been forced to watch, for the sake of sparing Bilba and his boys from having to see him hurt.

He wanted to spare them from the agony, from the shame. They wouldn't need to know, they deserved better. He would not tell them, if that could be avoided.

* * *

Eight lashes, Thrain gave him that day.

“You deserve at least a hundred,” Thrain panted afterwards, helping Thorin to put his shirt back on to hide the reddened skin. “But we must do it gradually, lest I might kill you and I don’t want to do that. Come here again tomorrow well rested and we will carry on, then.”

* * *

Upon the throne, the Arkenstone shone, and below it on the throne itself, King Thrain in all his finery.

The enormous statues of ancient warriors in their armors guarded the narrow bridge as if ready to raise their axes to strike down any who threatened the king or their home, and even now after months of living in Erebor, Bilba -- whenever her presence in the throne room was needed -- would shiver, murmur something about being “terribly, _terribly_ high and _about to fall_ ” and press close to Thorin, holding onto him tightly.

Now, her presence was not needed in the throne room. As far as Thorin knew, she was tending to her garden, or possibly helping Ori in one of the libraries, doing the things she seemed to enjoy.

Stifling his longing for her, he resisted the urge to shift on his feet in order to focus on the dwarrows queueing on the bridge leading up to the throne in the center of the room carved out of stone.

The dwarf next in line – Brion, as Thorin recalled the name of the miner who had occasionally used to play with Fili and Kili when the three of them had been younger – was allowed to ascend the stairs so he could kneel before his king. Thrain waved a ringed finger and Brion stood up.

“Your Majesty,” he said, placing then a fist onto his heart to give Thorin a deep bow in turn, “and my lord Prince Thorin.”

“Master Brion.” Thorin smiled at the dwarf, noting the engagement bead among the red hair. “I see congratulations are in order. May I inquire of the identity of your intended?”

Brion’s tentative smile turned into a grin and he nodded eagerly.

“Wilor, my beloved is Wilor,” he boasted, thin chest puffed out. “Durable like granite, dependable like the ground itself! He is the strongest of all the miners in the guild and has a great nose for gold. In all frankness, my lord, I believe I’m the luckiest dwarf this side of the Blue Mountains.”

Smiling, Thorin inclined his head. He recalled the young Wilor. Wilor had been running after Brion since before Kili had known how to walk – a high time for Wilor and Brion to do something honorable about it.

“I am pleased for you both,” he meant what he said. “May Mahal bless your union.”

“Thank you, Your Graciousness!”

There seemed to be tears in Brion’s eyes, as he looked at Thorin, admiration written all over his young features.

“And thank you for giving us a future by reclaiming the Mountain from the Slug!”

Now that he had expressed his gratitude to Thorin, Brion had nothing more to say and so he descended the stairs, bowing both to Thorin and Thrain, allowing the next dwarf, Old Frukus, to step forward, while Thorin did his best to ignore the brightness in the corner of his eye, disturbed by the cursed stone as he now was.

Bright as the Arkenstone was, it was impossible to not notice it. Regardless of Thorin’s various requests, Thrain had refused to destroy the gem and had instead had it attached onto his throne like Thror had before him.

 _”To remind you of your deeds,”_ he had said to Thorin. _”You can never forget what it caused you to do, or you might succumb to madness again. May the Arkenstone remind you of your weaknesses, my son, of your various failures.”_

Old Frukus simply wanted to know whether “Thorin Oakenshield, the hero” still remembered her.

Thorin did, of course, because she had been the one to gift Fili and Kili with warm clothes during the bitterly cold times in Ered Luin.

It made Old Frukus – _“Your Lordship remembers!”_ – faint in delight, but Dwalin was fortunately close enough to catch her before she could fall off the stairs down into the caverns far, far below.

* * *

Thrain slammed the door shut, rounding then on Thorin. The strange gleam in the dark eyes was again there, like it now so often was whenever father would look at him.

Thorin turned his gaze away. The gleam made him uncomfortable.

“They all wanted to see _you_.”

It was an accusation and Thrain didn’t pretend otherwise.

“It was the King’s Audience,” Thorin tried to reason. “They were queueing to share their concerns with you to-”

“With _you_ , Thorin!” Thrain cut him off. “With _you_ , not me! It’s always all about YOU! Can you not see it, you sorry excuse of a dwarf!”

That evening, the flogging made Thorin bleed for the first time.

* * *

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he cleaned the wounds to the best of his abilities, bandaging them afterwards. He covered the bandages up with a tunic and then hurried to dine with his Company in the royal dining chamber.

Father was already there, sitting at the head of the table, chatting with Dis and Balin. Leaning down to kiss Bilba’s cheek, Thorin took his seat on Thrain’s right, throwing a few crude insults in Dwalin’s way just for the familiarity of it all. Dwalin responded in kind, much to the delight of the whole table.

Then they ate. They talked. They laughed. Bofur and Fili danced on the table while the rest of them sang. Dori wept, proud, when Bifur made an effort to use a fork for the first time since the battle of Azanulbizar. Shyly, Ori poured Bilba more ale and Bilba thanked him, profusely, although she never drank the whole tankard because Kili stole it from her in order to pour it down Ori’s back “for celebrations” which was reason enough for Dori to end up fighting both Fili and Kili under the table “for ruining the new tunic, you rascals!” and for Bombur to join in on the fight because he hated it when good ale was wasted.

Thorin’s back hurt.

No-one noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update, wrote it in a hurry. I hope you liked it anyways.
> 
> Let me know if you'd like to read more.


	4. Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to MisteeSky, franticreader, Blueskydancers, Merellifluous, absurdArtisan, FN_2187, bm, Cuptivate and LokasennaHiddleston for taking the time to write me a comment! I appreciate that very much.

The sudden slash of pain in his back had his muscles tense up as if in preparations for a fight. Gritting his teeth, his nails dug into his palms where he clenched his fists to resist the instinct to _turn around and strike_ to defend himself.

It went against all he was, to just stand there shirtless to take the pain, and after decades of surviving in harsh conditions, he had to make a conscious effort to not swirl around to face the threat behind him to break their neck. Thrain would not have stood a chance against him, but killing his rightful king – his sire – was of course not an option, and so Thorin reminded himself he was being flogged because he deserved the pain, that father was doing this because _this was just_ , because this was his _due punishment_.

Something hot and wet trickled down his back. The flogging came into a halt and a curious finger touched the skin of his back wet from blood and sweat.

“You bleed beautifully, son,” Thrain said, and the finger moved up to his shoulder to trace the scar Azog had left Thorin with, the wound – now healed – that had once brought him close to entering the Halls of his Ancestors.

“Scars; your shame left for all to see. Your skin is marked with your failures.”

“I must respectfully disagree,” Thorin’s voice was low but firm. “For the most part, my scars are marks of battles won, of harsh times endured.”

Thrain snorted.

The finger withdrew and a moment later, the sharp whip of pain slammed into his back again. Thorin hissed through gritted teeth, breathing shakily through his nose, but didn’t otherwise make a sound.

“Save your excuses for Mahal,” Thrain grunted, bringing the whip to rest on Thorin’s shoulder. “He might show you mercy, but I won’t because _you don’t deserve it_.”

Thorin knew as much. He hadn’t even asked for mercy, and by pointing that out, he now earned himself a few more lashes.

* * *

Afterwards, when Thrain decided it was the time to stop, Thorin went back to his own chambers, his tunic clinging to the dried blood on his skin. He greeted the guards at his door with a polite nod and they saluted him, their gazes mercifully straight ahead instead of on Thorin. If they noticed his slight hunch, neither asked about it.

As Thorin had suspected she might, Bilba was waiting for him in his chambers. As he entered, she put away _The Fool of a Dwarf_ by Huldur Scribeneck, marking the page with a feather, and looked up.

“Hello, love,” her voice was soft as she gave him a slow smile from where she was lounging comfortably on her side on the bear furs in front of the high fireplace, unaware of the burning in his back.

She was naked. The dancing flames gave her bare skin and the curls pooling around her a golden tint, and as he watched, she brought a hand up to cup her breast large enough to not fit fully in her delicate hand. By now, she well knew the effect she had on him and delighted them both on occasion by playing it up as she now was.

“A lone hobbit like me in a mountain full of dwarrows,” Bilba’s voice was rueful, the contrast of her narrow waist and wide hips emphasized as she moved a thigh over the other to hide her labia teasingly from Thorin’s sight. “With no beads in my hair, people will think me unclaimed.”

Instantly possessive, Thorin stepped closer to loom over her. She had removed his bead from her hair. He didn’t like the sight of it, he wanted the bead _back in her hair_ where _it belonged_.

“You are _mine_ ,” he declared, “as I am yours. Bead or not.”

“Perhaps so, my darling,” she said with a grin, patting the empty spot next to her invitingly, “but perhaps you should come over here and prove as much to me, just in case. I have been waiting for you to make me feel yours all evening.”

Uncomfortably conscious of the way the bloodied tunic was sticking to his burning back, Thorin’s heart sank. He wouldn’t be able to grow hard, not now, pained and injured as he was. He would have to disappoint her, for this evening, he would have to decline her offer for shared pleasure.

Where usually just the sight of her bare voluptuous curves was enough to stir him into hardness, he now wished she would leave his chambers – the burning in his back was getting worse and he would need to take a bath in order to soak the tunic off. Undoubtedly, that would cause him even more pain and he didn’t want her to be there to witness it. He didn’t want her to bear witness to the humiliating aftermath of his punishment.

“Ghivashel,” he therefore said, eyeing her longingly. “Lovely as you are, I cannot share the bed with you tonight, much to my regret.”

Bilba’s hand paused momentarily where she had been running it through her hair. Surprise flickered across her face – he had never before turned her down.

She flushed red as if embarrassed and fumbled for the silky green robe folded neatly by the furs.

“Oh,” she said, as she pulled the robe on, red-faced. “Oh. That’s… Um. Of course, you don’t _have to_ \- I- I… What I mean to say is, I of course understand. Don’t worry about it.”

Like a respectable gentlehobbit suddenly finding herself naked in the mountain of dwarrows, trying to seduce their king and finding the whole matter _scandalous_ , she was quick to cover herself up, while Thorin watched on, ignoring the churning in the bottom of his belly. He wanted to kneel next to her, to take her hands in his to reassure her, but his back was burning, the skin stretched unnaturally, and his tunic clung to his bloodied back uncomfortably. He feared the wounds would fester.

“Sanûrzud.” He offered her a hand as she clambered up to the feet she had carefully combed. “I am sorry. You are the most beautiful being I have ever seen and I would like little else as much as making our bodies one, but the day has been tasking and I need rest.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She kissed his cheek, her embarrassment seeming to fade away now that she observed him up close. “I can see you are tired. Is that iron I smell – were you at the forge this late?”

She mistook the stench of blood for the scent of iron, duller as her hobbit senses were to observe metals as compared to any a dwarf’s. Thorin didn’t correct her, not this time, allowing her to come to her own conclusions rather than confessing he was still bleeding.

“Darling,” she sighed, frowning in worried disapproval. “You shouldn’t work this much. Why don’t I make us a cup of tea, hm? You go take your clothes off and I’ll draw you a nice relaxing bath in the meanwhile."

The tub in the bathing room had access to the hot springs deep beneath the ground. By turning on the faucet, warm water began to instantly fill in the tub. Bilba was still terribly impressed by the engineering behind it all and she never missed an opportunity to draw him a bath.

Thorin offered her a thankful smile.

It took a lot of effort, but he managed to keep his back turned away from her at all times. She didn’t see the marks, not even as he bathed in water quickly turning rusty red, although something must have given him away anyway, for he caught her frowning at him worriedly several times when they drank their tea on his sofa.

“There is something I must ask,” she said eventually, putting her empty cup away onto the side table, and her overly cautious voice filled him with dread for what was to come. “I have noticed you are more silent than usual whenever you come back from your evening talks with your father. Is-” she seemed to hesitate, biting her lip briefly. “Is… Thorin, is everything all right between you and King Thrain?”

“All is well,” he answered after a pause, offering her a smile that felt strained to him but which he wished looked content to her.

He had never been good at lying, however, too honorable as he was to have practiced much, and the look in her eye was quick to sharpen. Her worry, mixed with suspicion, grew visibly stronger.

“There is no need to worry,” he insisted, looking down into the brown tea in the delicate little teacup she found most pleasant with all the painted flowers (she called them roses) on its sides. “Your time is better spent creating yarn holes.”

“Crocheting, love,” corrected Bilba, although it sounded like her thoughts were elsewhere.

He could feel her eyes on him, the gaze too sharp to ignore.

He had made her suspicious. He didn’t like that.

She tried to talk about it more, tried to ask about Thrain tactfully, but he evaded the questions and changed the subject. Eventually, as the night grew late, looking even more worried than before, she went reluctantly back to her own chambers across the hall, “improper” as she claimed it still would have been for her to spent the entire night there in Thorin’s chambers. Usually though he would have grumbled about peculiar hobbit customs to himself (they were engaged to marry – unlike hobbits, any a dwarf would have allowed her to spent the night in Thorin’s chambers at this point), he was now grateful, for he could lie on his belly without a blanket to allow his back to heal and no-one was there to witness it.

* * *

“Orcs.”

Thorin had been roused by Idir, the wide-eyed lad in charge of cleaning up his chambers, and he was now standing at attention in father’s chambers, again, in the early hours of the morning, while father regarded him with that strange gleam in his eyes.

“Orcs,” Thrain said again. “Orcs in the western passage. The report came in some minutes ago.”

“How many?”

Orcrist a familiar weight by his side, Thorin ignored the pain in his back under the armor, mind already filled with potential battle strategies.

“A few,” said Thrain. “Something between three to thirteen. You must take care of them.”

“Of course,” Thorin gave a firm nod. “I will take Dwalin and a few warriors. We will leave at once.”

“Unnecessary.” Thrain stared at him, the gleam never leaving his eyes. “They are sleeping. Allow them their rest. Surely you can fight a few orcs on your own.”

Thorin inclined his head, respectfully, but didn't yet make another move to obey otherwise.

“You know I am not entirely well,” he finally said, slowly. “My back pains me and might hinder my efforts in fighting. A few loyal warriors is all I ask.”

Thrain…

He smiled, the gleam in his eyes turning dangerous.

“Consider it a part of your punishment, son. You will face the orcs on your own. That’s an order.”

* * *

Thorin was loyal to the crown, he was loyal to Thrain and would not betray him, but as the Sun slowly rose above the horizon and he rode out alone to fight the unknown number of orcs on his own, Thorin couldn’t help but question his father, king or not – in a mountain with a battle-ready army, it was pure madness to order one dwarf to battle orcs alone! He deserved to be punished, yes, but loyal to his king though he was, Thorin also had duties to their people. His people still needed him and if he now died fighting orcs, it would be his people who paid the price, it would be his people - more so than Thorin - who would be punished.

Thrain hadn’t even allowed him to say his farewells to anyone, or to leave a message to arrange things in case he might not come back alive.

The word of the king was the law and Thorin hadn’t once considered disobeying, even if the faces of his family and friends flashed before his eyes as he rode along the western passage. If he now died, he couldn’t help but think, Fili and Kili would never forgive Thrain. They wouldn’t forgive Thrain and their resulting anger might get them in trouble. They might forget their loyalty to the crown came before their loyalty to any a family member, and Thorin could only hope Dis would be able to keep them from doing anything unwise in his absence.

His nephews were everything to him, as was…

Bilba.

The thought of her had Thorin clenching the reins in his fists. His death would be a true betrayal to her. She had left her home and people for him, for their love, and if she now lost their shared future, her sacrifice would have been for nothing. He would be nothing to her but more heartache and pain and lost dreams.

Unwavering in his determination to obey his king as Mahal himself had decided was just though he might have been, Thorin couldn’t stifle his anger. He wasn’t angry on his own behalf, but on behalf of those he loved. It would be unfair for them to have to bury him. They didn’t deserve the pain, they didn’t deserve to be punished for being foolish enough to still love him after all he had done.

All this considered, he couldn’t afford to die, not now when his death would hurt so many.

He would have to kill effectively.

Unsheathing Orcrist in one smooth move, Thorin urged Dilly into a gallop when he spotted the first of the orcs running towards him.

“Curse you,” he muttered, even if he didn’t know whether he was addressing himself, his father, or the orc, “ _curse you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yawn. It's pretty late here, but I wanted to update something before going to sleep anyway. I hope you're still reading. :)> (Again, that's a smiling dwarf.)


	5. The Betrayal

Disgusted, Thorin picked up the five orc heads by the hair, if they had any, or by the ear, if they didn’t, and stuffed them unceremoniously into a bag before tying the bag onto his saddle as proof of a task successfully completed. The decapitated heads oozed slimy black blood that smelt even more horrid that the breath of the creatures had been before Thorin had killed them and it soon seeped through the hessian, trickling down Dilly’s carefully groomed sides in thick black rivulets that gleamed like snakes in the light of the rising Sun.

“I apologize,” Thorin told Dilly, sincerely, sneering then down at the blood from where he sat astride on the pony, moving his leg to prevent his riding breeches from getting soiled. “Someone shall give you a proper wash once we reach the stables. I believe you have also earned several orange vegetables – carrots, if you may – for your bravery and loyalty on this day. You served the line of Durin well and made your mare and brethren proud.”

Dilly didn’t answer, munching grass as she was, and without waiting, Thorin urged her forward, heading back home. He then promptly brought her into a halt, leaning hastily to the side – and threw up the steaks from the evening before, the smarting in his back making him dizzy and nauseated. Pain always had a tendency to turn his language foul and now that his back burned, the curses he spat out would have impressed even Dwalin had Dwalin been there to hear them.

Spitting finally out one last curse as well as the taste of vomit, Thorin forced himself to sat straight up on the saddle. The armor chafed his wounded back, but he didn’t dare to remove it, not yet when he wasn’t in the safety of his mountain, not yet when there was nothing but open sky above him ready to suck him into its unreliable vastness at any a given moment.

Despite of Bilba’s attempts to convince him otherwise, Thorin mistrusted the sky; so far the sky had given him no good reason not to. There were no sturdy pillars, no support columns of any kind to be seen, and so it would only be a matter of time before the blue canvas collapsed in on its weight. That in mind, Thorin had sent several invites to Bilba’s people to welcome the whole of the Shire to come to live in the safety of Erebor, but so far the hobbits hadn’t yet quite understood the severity of their inevitable doom and had instead misunderstood his sincerity by suggesting he was joking. Stubborn as ever, Thorin was nonetheless far from giving up. He would not let the matter rest until Bilba’s people were safely inside the mountain – she would mourn her people’s passing and so it would be better to prevent the extinction before it could ever happen.

Regarding the sky with concern and suspicion, Thorin noted the black raven flying high above. He motioned for it to fly closer and soon enough Roäc landed onto his shoulder, the black wings giving a flutter. Thorin gritted his teeth, doing his best to ignore how the additional weight jarred his pained torso.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” came Roäc’s croak of a greeting. “You hailed. How may I be of service?”

“Master Roäc.” Thorin tried to say that as politely as he could under the circumstances which meant he sounded terse and annoyed even to his own ears. With Bilba instantly in his mind scolding him for being rude to a loyal ally, Thorin gritted his teeth, praying for patience, and went on, “I apologize for my short temper this morning. There is much on my mind.”

“I can see that,” Roäc sounded sympathetic. “Your mistreatment is well known by the Ravens. After all, we do discuss with the Rats, on occasion, and they have eyes where we do not. They are quite the opportunists, but even they consider King Thrain’s actions against you a disgrace. No Raven would treat their offspring as cruelly, that’s for certain! We do not like his cruelty. It reflects badly on his reign.”

“I advise you to not speak about my father like that,” said Thorin after a pause, uncomfortable. “Many would not take it kindly.”

“Yet, most would agree. I recently discussed this with a perch and even she was quite appalled.”

“I hailed you for an actual reason, not to give me a report of all the gossip you have had with the local fauna as of late.”

Roäc let out a sound that might have been questioning, might have been disappointed.

”Fly straight to my cousin, Lord Gloin,” Thorin therefore said without further ado, “and tell him to take Princes Fili and Kili to Dale at once. They are to stay there to practice their skills in diplomacy. They are not to come back until _I personally_ send for them. Make sure Gloin understand Fili and Kili _are not to come back until I send for them_.”

Roäc was quiet.

“You fear for the safety of your nephews,” he finally observed and Thorin’s hold on the reins tightened until his knuckles were white.

“My reasons are my own.”

“So they are,” Roäc’s croak was soft. ”Worry not, my lord, I will do as requested. By the time you reach Erebor, your nephews should be on their way to Dale.”

He flew off.

Thorin didn’t watch him go, preferring to look up at the traitorous sky as little as possible.

As Erebor drew closer, Thorin had to stop to vomit often enough that when he finally reached the gates, he was dry-heaving, for there was no longer anything in his stomach to be thrown up. Sweating even as he was cold enough to shiver apart from his back which was burning like on fire, he greeted Hasik and Usik, the two warriors guarding the gate, and was given such grim looks in turn he knew he had to look such as bad as he felt – the twins hadn’t looked at him like that since the day after the Battle of Azanulbizar.

“Have my nephews passed through this morning?”

Annoyance covered the discomfort in his voice, but the Sik brothers were familiar enough with his temper to not take offence, neither even blinked an eye at his tone.

“Yes, Sire,” said Hasik instead, studying him with open concern. “They rode out with Lord Gloin some half an hour ago, both grumbling some. Headed towards Dale. You missed them only just.”

Thorin nodded.

Good. He hadn’t wanted Fili and Kili to see him like this. Both would have taken it badly, both would have _reacted_ to it badly in their youthful haste and recklessness – both would have confronted Thrain on his behalf, one way or the other, and Thorin feared to think how unwise that could have been.

Foreboding, his gaze moved up to the statues of his ancestors guarding the gate.

He could no longer ignore the gnawing feeling deep in his gut.

He knew for certain he _never_ would have sent anyone off to face orcs on their own. Ordering someone to fight orcs as a punishment was cowardly and dishonorable, for the harshness of the punishment would thus be left depending much on the enemy, on their number and capability as fighters, whereas it should always be the king shouldering the weight of such difficult decisions.

Thorin wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t slow-minded: By sending him out on his own, father had intended him severe harm, possibly to get him killed.

If death penalty was what Thorin now deserved, father would have – _should have_ – ordered it in public instead of sending him off on his own in the middle of the night when a few were there to witness his departure. By all that was right and just, Thorin should have been executed in public, his crime there for all to see, he himself there for all to judge – that was the way the tradition would have had it, that was the way dwarrows had always done it.

Despite of his claims, Thrain therefore hadn’t intended for him to fight the orcs as _a punishment_. Thrain had not behaved like a father should nor had his order been one of a wise ruler.

As much as Thorin was loath to think ill of his own father, the years in exile had taught him to expect the worst. It was possible Thrain had never really even intended to punish him but had instead used punishment as an excuse to hurt him. This morning, for one, Thorin was certain, had not been a punishment.

It had been an act of a ruler who wanted to get rid off a disagreeable heir surreptitiously, without causing a political uproar.

Looking away from the statues of his ancestors, Thorin turned his glare upwards towards the ceiling high above.

Why would father want him dead? Had he not welcomed Thrain warmly back? Had he not shown his loyalty, his dedication, his support? If Thrain didn’t trust Thorin to be his heir, what did that mean for Fili and Kili? Both boys had made it clear their loyalty and love were with Thorin, not with Thrain, and if Thorin’s life was on the line, it was possible Fili and Kili were threatened as well. They were safe in Dale, for now, but Nori would need to arrange them a safe passage to Iron Hills, just in case the situation in Erebor should escalate.

What of all the others loyal to Thorin, then? Were their lives in danger as well? What of Bilba? Dis? Dwalin and Balin? Even the young Gimli might be threatened, if Thrain could sent his own son to die by the blade of an orc.

Dizzy, Thorin thought of Fili and Kili. He loved his boys. He loved them and wished only good things for their future. He wanted them to be brilliant. He wanted them to be better than he ever was, better than he even had the makings to be, and so he knew that to send him out on his own was not an action of a loving father.

Thorin wouldn’t call his boys back before he could guarantee their safety under Thrain’s reign.

“Pardon me, my lord,” Usik cut into his thoughts and Thorin straightened up with some effort from where he had been about to fall off the saddle. “You do not look well. Should we send for Lord Oin?”

“No need.” Thorin held himself stiffly. “Carry on with your duties.”

With that, he rode to the stables to see to it that Dilly was given the wash and the orange vegetables she deserved.

Every movement jarred his back.

* * *

The morning session was underway when Thorin reached the council chamber. To say it caused a stir when he marched in to kneel before his father in front of the council members to present him with a bag full of orc heads would have been an understatement. While a shocked murmur went through the council and several council members jumped up to their feet, something close to disappointment flickered across Thrain’s features. Thrain was not fast enough to school his face to hide it from Thorin, but the gleam in the eyes was not there for once. Instead, Thorin’s gaze was met with something cool and calculating even if a slow smile appeared on Thrain’s wrinkled face. 

“What’s this then!”

Dwalin’s roar – less of a question and more of a way to express appalled outrage – was well audible even above the upset murmuring. He was up on his feet and by Thorin’s side in an instant, kneeling next to him, a strong hand appearing on Thorin’s arm to give him support where he was swaying.

“You fucking _oaf_ ,” Dwalin murmured, low enough for only Thorin to hear. “Here I thought you’d simply slept in when you didn’t show up while in truth you went behind my back to _fucking slaughter orcs_? I received the report there had been orc sightings, but by the time I received the report after waking up, the king said it had already been taken care of – I can now see it was _you_ who took our warriors and _went without me_. What were you even-”

“Peace, cousin,” Thorin interrupted, inclining his head in a pacifying manner in order to reassure Dwalin, to calm Dwalin down with patience he didn’t have. “We shall talk later. I will explain all. Have patience.”

Carefully, with dread, Thorin looked up at Thrain from his kneeling position.

“My king.” 

“My _beloved_ son,” said Thrain, the broad smile never leaving his face, even if the gleam was again there in his eyes. “My _pride and joy_. We missed you at the breakfast. You are now a little late, I must say. As you can see, the morning session has already begun. I must ask you to be on time from now on for the sessions even if you decide to take a morning stroll to… _let out some steam_ by slaughtering our enemy, bravely.”

Thorin’s heart sank.

Up until now, he had dared to wish he had misunderstood Thrain’s motives – he had wished he had somehow been mistaken – but now father seemed determined to pretend in front of the council he hadn’t sent Thorin out on his own to fight an unknown number of orcs. He was pretending it had been Thorin’s decision to ride out alone. It was…

It was a betrayal. Even if Thrain did have the right to do as he wished as the king, he had betrayed Thorin as his father.

At least Fili and Kili were safe, regardless of what would happen next.

Disappointed and disheartened even more so than disgusted, Thorin had to look away from the gleaming eyes, choosing instead to glare down at the heads he had cut off that morning. The orcs were staring at nothing. Some heads had their tongues hanging out, making it appear they were panting like dogs. Bilba might have pitied the slain orcs, but all Thorin saw was a filthy disgrace. He felt no pity for any an orc.

“I have returned from the mission you tasked me with earlier this morning, father,” he declared loud enough for all to hear. He gestured at the heads in the bag. “I was successful, as you can see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really busy, but I tried to keep the fic going on for you who've left me comments. This is my way of thanking you for your kindness! I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


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